


The Danger is I'm Dangerous

by dropshipheroes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Daredevil AU, F/M, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dropshipheroes/pseuds/dropshipheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She isn’t sure what she expected. Clarke is pretty much the go-to medic for the kids around here and she’s dealt with a lot of ugly stuff because of it, but somehow the body in the dumpster shakes her more than all of it combined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Danger is I'm Dangerous

She’s getting ready for bed when the knock comes, thinks about ignoring it for a minute because she’s tired and damn it, it’s her night off. But then it sounds again, quick and urgent, and with a sigh she shuts off the bathroom light and goes to answer the door.

It’s Monty from upstairs, a good kid, too good for this neighborhood really, and the look on his face is enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through her system and have her blood running a little colder.

“Clarke,” he says, relief bleeding into his voice through the fear, “I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry I just didn’t know what to do.”

He’s rambling a little and she puts a hand on his arm to calm him down. He startles at the touch but then settles and she waits for him to meet her eyes and match her slow breaths before saying, “Show me.”

She isn’t sure what she expected. Clarke is pretty much the go-to medic for the kids around here and she’s dealt with a lot of ugly stuff because of it, split lips and concussions from street fights, sixteen year olds in labor and terrified, even a gunshot wound or two over the years. But somehow the body in the dumpster shakes her more than all of it. 

“Help me get him out,” she tells Monty, glad that her voice at least sounds calm. She has to take charge here no matter how hard her heart is pounding. God knows no one else is going to. 

A tiny voice in her head is asking why she doesn’t just call 911, make an anonymous report and let the police and the EMTs handle it. She doesn’t have a good answer to that question though, besides a gut feeling which sounds like shaky reasoning at best to her scientific mind, and so she ignores the voice and worries about getting a solid grip under the mystery man’s shoulders while Monty grabs his legs. She tries to ignore the mask pulled halfway down the man’s face and the way it makes that uneasy feeling beat harder in her chest. At least from here she can tell he’s still breathing.

It’s slow work getting him up to her apartment and it’s only by virtue of the fact that most sane residents lock their doors and shut their curtains when dark falls in this part of the city that they aren’t seen. She has Monty help her get the man positioned on her couch and then she sends him home, tells him to forget what he saw. Monty doesn’t argue, forgetting is one of the first things kids around here learn these days.

After the door shuts behind him she spends a good five minutes fighting a panic attack, but no one is around to see her so she figures it’s almost like it didn’t happen right? Once she gets air back in her lungs and ice back in her veins she’s all business, trained fingers tracing over the man for signs of visible injury, cataloguing purpling bruises and shallow cuts. She’s pretty sure he’s got at least two broken ribs and there is a worryingly deep puncture wound in his side that she’s afraid might have gone deep enough to hit a lung. It’s already more than she can handle here in her apartment and she knows it, but she keeps going anyway. 

Finally the only thing left to do is pull off the mask. There is enough blood trickling down his face from underneath to indicate a superficial scalp laceration at best and frankly she’d be shocked if he didn’t have one hell of a concussion too, and yet her fingers hesitate around the edges of the black wool. It feels somehow like a violation to remove this, as if she would be undressing him more in this one act than if she had stripped him naked completely, but it has to be done. At least that’s what she tells herself when she steels her spine and peels the cloth up as gently as she can.

Clarke catches her breath at the face that is revealed, as even bloodied and bruised she can tell he is stunning. Dark curls fall over his forehead and she’s brushing them back before she can stop herself, wincing a little when the motion reveals an angry cut along his hairline. That’ll probably need stitches, which she definitely isn’t equipped for. Even as she’s adding this injury to her ever-growing list her fingers have drifted unbidden across the rest of his face, tan skin and a strong jaw, dimpled chin and freckles visible even through the flakes of drying blood. It is a face that is at once both boy and man, a face that makes you look twice. The kind of face that shouldn’t end up in a dumpster in her back alley.

She shakes off the thoughts and pulls herself back to the matter at hand. She’s already in over her head with the injuries she can see, and the purpling around his temple makes her worry there is more damage not visible to the naked eye. Her keys on the side table have a miniature flashlight attached which isn’t exactly the best diagnostic tool but it will have to do, and when she peels back an eyelid she prays that she’s not going to find the kind of blown out pupil that indicates bleeding on the brain. 

Clarke isn’t sure if what she does find is better or worse. His eyes are totally unresponsive to the light, so either he’s blind or he’s hurt worse than even she had thought. Her phone catches her eye when she drops the keys back onto the table, urging her once more to call for help, and she tells herself it’s only the idea of having to explain how this body got into her apartment that has her ignoring it, moving instead to pull her med kit from under the bathroom sink and scrubbing her hands under the hottest water her old faucet will spit out. She’s pulling on a pair of gloves when he comes too, a sudden gasp of air almost bending him in half before he drops back and starts coughing.

“Easy,” she says, a hand pressing hard on his shoulder to keep him from trying to move. “Take it easy, just breathe.”

Mystery man doesn’t seem all that inclined to take her advice, pushing at her hand with a surprising amount of strength all things considered and trying to sit up. The movement pulls at his ribs though and with another gasp he’s falling back against her couch once more, breathing heavy, his fingers gripping the edge of the cushion tightly.

“I told you not to move,” she says, exasperation clear in her voice. _Great bedside manner Clarke_ she tells herself sarcastically but she can’t help it, the panic is starting to creep back in.

The man ignores her words anyway, too busy fighting his way back up to a sitting position and grimacing through the pain. She thinks about pushing him back down, knows she probably could despite that fact that he’s got an easy 6 inches and 60 pounds on her – of nearly pure muscle, as she’d discovered in her examination – but she doesn’t fight him this time.

“Did you call anyone?” he asks once he’s sitting, face twisted up in pain and his voice raspy and gruff. It makes Clarke shiver, not entirely in a good way, and she thinks about lying and telling him the cops are on their way. She doesn’t even know this man for goodness sake, and he’s clearly trouble.

“No,” she says instead, “But you need a hospital. You’ve got at least a few broken ribs and I’m pretty sure you’ve been stabbed.”

“No hospital.” He says it quickly, decisively, like he’s been in this place before and the words are routine. “Too dangerous.”

Clarke laughs at that in disbelief but it’s a choking, nervous sound that matches the tremor she can feel starting under her skin. “Too dangerous? Says the guy who I found dying in a dumpster?”

Mystery man shakes his head, his curls flopping limply back across his forehead with the motion. “Not for me,” he tells her, “For everyone there. They’d kill all of them to find me.”

It should sound like the ramblings of a mad man, like something that further proves the likelihood of a brain injury, because who says things like that? But instead the words make Clarke’s blood freeze. Which just makes her angry.

“So what, instead I’m supposed to let you bleed out on my carpet? How am I supposed to explain that to the landlord huh?”

He pauses at that, head tilting inquisitively and his eyes not quite meeting her own (blind, he must be blind, her mind notes distantly). He opens his mouth like he has a retort for that, something almost like a smile flirting at the corners of his lips, but then his body spasms in another wave of pain and his mouth snaps shut, teeth gritting against it as he wheezes. “Tell you what sweetheart, point me in the direction of your front door and you won’t have to worry about explaining anything to anyone.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she snaps back automatically, “And I doubt you can even stand let alone make it to the door.”

“Never know unless we try,” he argues, sarcasm and pain making his voice rougher still. He pushes himself up then, one arm held tight around his middle and Clarke winces for him even though he’s doing a hell of a job of hiding what must be an agonizing amount of pain. Again she thinks about pushing him back to the couch, or grabbing for her phone, but if he’s so hell bent on leaving why should she stop him? The fact that she wants to stop him is enough to make her think she should probably let him go, so she stands and touches gently at his shoulder to angle him toward the door.

“You really should go to a hospital,” she mutters halfheartedly, already knowing her words will be ignored. As expected he shrugs off her touch and starts limping forward instead.

He’s halfway to the door and her conscience is warring with the fear in her gut trying to decide if she’s really gonna let him leave when fate makes the choice for her. He stops, swaying on his feet for a moment, sighs what sounds suspiciously like _‘fuck’_ and then he’s falling, face-planting onto her floor hard enough to make her picture frames shake on the wall. 

Fuck indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm obsessed with Daredevil. I blame that for posting the first chapter of something before I have the rest written, and worse posting something that I wrote in an hour with only a single read through for editing, both of which are so against all my rules for myself as a writer and yet here we are. I don't know how often I'll update but there's at least two more chapters in the works here so stay tuned.


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